


a needy bitch and a greedy bitch

by bloodandcream



Series: The more the merrier [68]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean, Experimental Style, Light Bondage, M/M, Multi, Power Dynamics, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 21:53:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7950511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s still here - on his knees - for other reasons. Hey, prison gets lonely. It gets boring. There are so many minutes of the day and dark corners that he and Sam can steal for themselves. For hungry mouths and greedy hands and the comfort of home they hold for each other. They don’t share cells and they don’t share every minute of every day.<br/>Dean’s never said he ain’t a needy bitch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a needy bitch and a greedy bitch

**Author's Note:**

> ((there is not a scrap of plot or dialogue in this, but the basic premise is a prison AU with correctional officer Castiel Novak, long time older inmate Cain, and fresh meat Sam and Dean))

His knees ache from the hard tile floor, shifting, grooves of the grout digging under a kneecap until it jerks itself into place. Slipping, hands braced on bare thighs, his body drops and it angles his neck straighter. More open. Cruel hands in short hair pulling him closer and he can’t breathe. Gag reflex kicking up, bile sour on the back of his tongue.

There’s a sharp ‘tsk’ from the corner. The hands in his hair loosen their hold. He’s hacking up a lung, all mucus thick spit spilling over his lips as the cock pulls out and he gasps.

Vision wavering, Dean turns his head to the side. Stubborn black mold crawls up the corners and cracks of the wide open communal shower room. Ugly ocre tiles cover the floors and walls. There’s a trough of ceramic sinks along the middle, a line of urinals against one wall. The shower still patters, weak and cold, to the side. Splashes against his shoulder. And he slips.

Novak’s boots are polish-bright, one ankle crossed over the other where he leans against the grimy tile wall a few feet away. Pressing his head against the warmth of a hard thigh, Dean closes his eyes and swallows the first acidic burn of his shitty dinner back down.

Sometimes, Cain’s hands are gentle. It’s confusing. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like the potential of tenderness that twists itself into malice and uncurls again. Gives Dean fucking whiplash. He doesn’t need kindness. He doesn’t need favors. Or protection. Or even to have a guard on his side.

Dean’s still here - on his knees - for other reasons. Hey, prison gets lonely. It gets boring. There are so many minutes of the day and dark corners that he and Sam can steal for themselves. For hungry mouths and greedy hands and the comfort of home they hold for each other. They don’t share cells and they don’t share every minute of every day.

Dean’s never said he ain’t a needy bitch.

Fingers, lighter, calloused, push along his scalp. Tingles down to spread across the swoop of his shoulders. The hair across Cain’s chest and belly is thick, dark. The skin beneath’s swirling with color, pictures bleeding into one another of violences that speak their own language. From the waist up, there’s maybe a few palmfuls of un-inked skin and that’s mostly on Cain’s face.

There’s a cough, impatient - hurry it up - and Novak pushes off from the wall.

Dean slips on the tile floor as his thighs cramp and he tips his head back to open his mouth easy and sweet with promise.

-

There are a lot of ways for a brother’s name to be spoken. Frustration. Impatience. Fondness. Command. Condescension. Lovingly. A brother’s name probably shouldn’t be gasped, bit into the back of a broad hand, groaned and grit out quiet, quiet because they can’t give the game away.

It’s kind of hard to get a boner in a freezer.

Scalding heat of a brother’s palm curled bruise tight around his cock pulls it out of him. Knee jammed to the metal edge of a shelf and damn but Dean’s gonna fuck up his knees in here. The whole thing judders with the force of Sam moving behind him. Jump suit pushed down mid thigh, rocking up on his toes, Dean has his face pressed between jars of condiments and he might get a freezer burn stripe across his chest where it scrapes across the shelf. Plastered. Went from bent over to hanging off his brother’s dick in no time at all.

Kitchen duty’s a pretty cushy job. No one’ll miss a tablespoon of cooking oil. Stolen minutes from prying eyes.

Sam fucks all his regret and all his guilt up deep into Dean’s body, and Dean wants all of it so he can hold it close and bitter to his chest. Break it open like brittle shells and spill out with all his come and tears and blood. This was Dean’s mistake, Dean’s fault, Dean’s slip up that landed the both of them here. This isn’t on Sam. And still those big puppy eyes waver on him across the cafeteria or yard and goddamit but Sam blames himself.

Sam understands Dean. Knows this is the best form of communication with a fucked up guy like him. Hands and violence and the heat of bodies pressed together, the empty space between them closed, rough cloth of Sam’s jumpsuit only opened in the front pressed along the chill curve of Dean’s back. This is how you make Dean understand. This is how you speak to him.

There are a lot of ways that Sam speaks his name. Things he puts behind it. Hides, cushions on his tongue against Dean’s neck and slips out from between his teeth into Dean’s ear. There’s possession and devotion and so many useless sorrys that Sam chokes on them. Breaks them open and they curl around Dean with his arms, sink in. All hot and cold and Dean barks out Sam’s name pressed into the flesh of his forearm with eyes shut tight.

-

There’s a utility shed in the yard. Kept under lock and key. All the inmates have to work, under close supervision. It smells like dirt and rust and it’s too cluttered for four grown men to be in. Unyielding metal around Dean’s wrists at the small of his back bites into soft skin and pinches over the bones. Splinters scrape his knees. Goddamit.

A hot ache throbs dully across his cheek from earlier. There was an altercation.

Dean doesn’t like it when other people put their hands on his little brother. Not in violence. Not for harm. Sam can protect himself, fuck knows he’s a mountain and immovable and hard as rock. But it’s Dean’s job. He’s kind of surprised he didn’t get sent to solitary, but Novak was the first to see them and quick on his feet, so huh, having friends in high places is pretty useful.

But now Cain’s got his hands on Sam. And the flush of violent energy under Dean’s skin twists itself into his gut slow, insidious, poisonous. There’s another kind of heat low and heavy. Cock straining against his jumpsuit. Toes curled in thin slip-on shoes. Fingernails biting into the creased palms of balled hands. He doesn’t want to pull Sam back. He wants for himself. Shoulder to shoulder, the two of them, they could kiss real sweet around a cock.

Two sharp blue gazes watch him.

Novak, a thumb hooked under his utility belt as he lounges against a shelf of tools. Dark hair usually parted neat has a few strands out of place from wandering hands. Pink lips licked slick and Dean wants to fucking wreck that mouth.

It’s Sam moaning around a cock, but Novak watches Dean.

Cain’s look shifts, roams around easy between the two of them. There’s a confidence to his bearing, always, a tension in the way he confines himself - still, quiet, observant. Dean was snared the first time eyes were laid on. Curly hair a mess around the old man’s face lends just a hint of crazy and he usually gets his way. Got Dean, no problem.

But Dean’s brother. It amps up the pace of his blood. He’s not used to watching from the sides. Muggy in the shed, sweat dripping down the line of his spine to dampen the coarse fabric of his jumpsuit and Dean’s hips twitch, just rubbing against the front. Shameless. Ain’t got nothing else to do but put on a show with two pairs of eyes watching and his wrists bruising behind his back.

The noises Sam makes. Muffled and wet. He doesn’t sound like this with Dean’s cock down his throat. Maybe his eyes are watering, shit but Dean would like to see the pretty fractured colors all swimming with tears. The only view he’s got is the color of Cain’s tattooed hands burying themselves in long hair. And the swell of Sam’s tight ass.

Wide chest heaving and sweat slick down his neck, when Sam turns his head to the side and licks the white from his lips to look at Dean, there’s clear tracks down his cheeks and yeah. Dean thought so.

Tilt-shift, everything’s different. Not bad. Not worse. Different. Apparently it’s a day for changes all around. The shiny gleam of Novak’s boots steps closer over creaking floorboards and the head of his cock is red being pulled through the blue of that tight uniform.

Pretty soon, Dean’s got tracks down his cheeks and it’s clumping his eyelashes too, bitter-sour on his tongue he holds out to catch it.

Looks like the officer isn’t a robot, after all.

-

Dean got switched to laundry duty and yeah, favors. Now he’s working with his brother. There should be more than the two of them folding jumpsuits and towels in the basement - maybe timetables got mixed up - with the rattling old industrial machines that billow heat, cloying, noisy. So fucking noisy.

Novak brought lube. That little boy-scout.

Bare chest pressed to the folding table, stainless-steel, slips under his skin and Dean’s gonna loose a few pounds of water weight sweating in this claustrophobic place. Scuffed linoleum floors, popcorn texture ceilings. There’s a light that’s ready to give up, flickering, doesn’t make a difference much with all the other lights but it gives off a hum that you hear when the machines still enough to be quiet a pause.

Elbows braced, ankles spread wide, Dean grins at the luxury. His knees ain’t gonna be twinging with remembered aches for days after this.

Novak goes first. Steady press of the heat of his cock head, bare. Right there as soon as Dean’s bent over. Shoving home with brutal efficiency and fuck it hurts. Muscles clamp down, code red, nonono, but there’s a hand at the back of his neck pinning him. Squirming. Fingers scrabble useless against the smooth table.

Sam’s behind him, can’t see Dean’s face. That’s a mercy. As fucking monstrous his brother is, as hurried as it is a lot of the time anymore, there’s kisses and fingers and a little warning first.

Novak ain’t a robot but he’s a cruel son of a bitch.

What’s it say about Dean that his cock is hard between his belly and the warm metal of the table. Fucking leaks when Novak shoves deep. Nails biting at the back of his neck and sharp hip bones driving bruises into tender peach flesh.

There’s no hearing Dean whimper over the clatter of the laundry machines, so he does. Goes limp and lets his mouth hang open and takes it. Takes it. Let’s it twist inside him, bright bloom of pain unfurling and god yeah.

It’s gone too soon. Wet and stuttering, slipping, Novak’s hand tensing against his neck and withdrawing. The weighty clink of his belt being drawn back closed retreats. Dean rolls his hips and shifts his feet. Calloused hands slide along the shivery skin of his sides and fit to the shape of his juddering ribs.

Cain has narrow hips, slender build, packed with lean muscle and it’s the nasty whipcord speed he’s got that’s dangerous. Loose and sloppy from Novak, there’s barely a pause and the tension coils tighter in his belly. Cain molds against him, mockery of sweetness, courting Dean’s body to respond with fingers splaying under his chest to press between Dean and the table, drag goose-bumps over his skin.

Dean could bust already, but he waits.

Pliable. His body stubbornly his to enjoy. He gives it away because he can. There’s little difference between one dick and the next when he needs his mouth for currency. Money, favors, distraction. It’s just all the other stuff attached to a dick that can be a problem.

He’s keeping a wary eye out for Cain. Soft lips and the brush of a groomed beard along Dean’s shoulders, hips rolling in steady, deep drags. It starts one way. Dean’s belly jumps and he curls his back, angles his neck to the side, pants and wraps his lips around the thumb that presses there. Feels the rumble of a laugh before Cain claps both hands vice-tight to Dean’s hips. Hauls him higher, fucks a guttural scream from deep, deep. Dean shakes like the unbalanced laundry machines, hands clenched into fists against the table.

Well, so much for waiting.

Dean can feel them lingering. Watching, weight of their regard palpable. There’s still an ache to be had in accommodating Sam inside himself, the wide tug, hollows him out. Sliding in slow, mess dripping between Dean’s thighs. He’s left-overs. This is what his brother gets.

The thud of a heart makes itself known between two layers of skin and two ribcages. Familiar strong arms curls around his waist, palms hot along the sticky tack of come spread on his skin. Soft, open, used - but Sam’s always welcome.

Sam’s never claimed not to be a greedy bitch.


End file.
